Three weeks have
passed since Our Little Buddy left us. The first several days were the worst.
Naturally, I have asked myself those age-old questions, “What could I have done
differently,” and “Did I do enough?” But I keep coming up with “I don’t have a
clue.” Maybe it was just her time to go.
But there’s that
dull ache, and tears still come to my eyes at the most unexpected times. Jean
speaks That Precious Puppy’s name, or I make a Freudian Slip and call someone
else by Buddy’s name. I pull a steak out of the refrigerator and place it in
the old frying pan, and I instantly regret it since… my mind is suddenly
overwhelmed with memories; bitter-sweet. My Little Friend loved steak, and one
whiff of that Medium Rare sent her galloping into the kitchen. And I’d drop a
couple of morsels into her mouth and she’d virtually swallow them whole. So
reminiscent of the gentile woman, and the illusion of dogs under the Master’s
table. But I hardly thought of My Little Buddy that way. She was a member of
the family. She was as near A Child to me as I can express or imagine.
My
mother-in-law made a remark to my wife a few years before she, herself, passed
away. It was poignant. (She never wasted words, and they always had import).
“Daughter, you
know, Buddy won’t always be with you.
I’ve made similar
remarks to clients and friends. I might say, “You know, we can’t stay here,” or
I’ll refer to myself in fairly graphic terms, “I hope you’ll be serving The
Lord long after I’m moldering away.”
And such
statements are fairly academic and theoretical ‘til they “come home to you.”
When My Dear Buddy passed away, it came home to me. The emotional chickens came
home to roost.
I’ll never forget
the long road trips we three took together; once to South Carolina and a
shorter excursion to the Florida East Coast. Buddy’s curiosity was contagious.
She would throw her paws up on the dashboard, and the wonder in her eyes was
compelling. In her silence she seemed to ask, “Are we there yet?” And she would
turn that petite little head to and fro, as traffic whisked by, and familiar
places gave way to unfamiliar.
We took Our Buddy
to the beach a couple of times. A leash wasn’t necessary. Where we walked, she
walked. Where we sat, she sat. And I’ll never forget her timidity as she
pitter-pattered up to the edge of the surf. And I’ll never forget her surprise
as the cold ocean water lapped against her legs. Needless to say, she didn’t
linger, but quickly darted up onto the dry sand.
And on this
memorable day, my wife and I, and Our Little Buddy stretched ourselves out on a
large blanket, and I think we all nodded off for a spell. We’d made plans to
watch the sunrise, in the morning, on the East Coast, and to travel to the West
Coast of the state, that same day, to watch the sunset. But fatigue changed our
minds for us. We watched that magnificent sunrise at Vero Beach and turned
around and went home; my wife, My Buddy and I.
But each of us have
the opportunity to witness a sunset more glorious than any we might have
witnessed that day. But it will be more than a casual observation of
nature’s glory. We have been given the privilege of participating in that
particular sunset.
Little Buddy was
the sunrise of our lives, and she was the sunshine of our moments. (For life is
not, in fact, an accumulation of days, but a collection of moments.) And though
Our Little Friend was denied the earthly opportunity, on that particular day,
of witnessing what assuredly would have been a magnificent sunset, she has been
privileged to participate in a grander one.
That most amazing
sunset awaits all of us. And the sunrise that will follow; the more amazing
still.
By William McDonald, PhD. Postscript to volume, "My Little Buddy"
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